


You See The Sky I Can't See

by LiveLaughLoveLarry



Category: One Direction (Band)
Genre: Anxiety, Anxiety Attacks, Anxious Louis, Empath, Fluff and Hurt/Comfort, Insecure Louis, Insecurity, Light Angst, M/M, Magic-Users, Magical Realism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-08-11
Updated: 2017-08-11
Packaged: 2018-12-13 23:39:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 14,303
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11770878
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LiveLaughLoveLarry/pseuds/LiveLaughLoveLarry
Summary: Louis has a Talent. That's what his mother calls them. Everyone on her side of the family has one, developed on their eighteenth birthday. Some are useful. Some are mundane. Some are simple. Some are powerful.Louis is an empath. He can sense the emotions of those around him; even manipulate them. But he's still new to his ability, and sometimes it threatens to overwhelm him.~*~*~Louis feels dizzy with all the emotion he senses as they walk back onstage. The boy standing beside Louis - Liam, he recalls - is flooded with the tightness of desperation. The dark-haired boy on Louis’ other side gives off the heaviness of disappointment, though not as strong as some other rejected hopefuls. The blond Irish one seems to be feeling both intense sadness and intense happiness – not in turns, as Louis is used to, but simultaneously.And Harry… there’s a hint of sadness, a thread of hope, but rising above it all is determination, firm and warm. It makes Louis’ breath catch. He’s hurting – they all are – but it isn’t breaking him. Whatever happens, good or bad, he’s ready to give everything he has. Louis decides to draw on that, settling it into his chest. Whatever happens, he too will be ready.





	You See The Sky I Can't See

**Author's Note:**

  * For [phoenixflyinghigh](https://archiveofourown.org/users/phoenixflyinghigh/gifts).



> Disclaimer: I do not have anxiety. I tried to portray Louis' anxiety issues realistically, but if I made a mistake, please let me know. Also, be warned that there are descriptions of anxiety attacks -- take care of yourself.
> 
> Huge thanks to my britpick, Olivia, and to my beta reader, Peter. Y'all rock!
> 
> Title from Cassadee Pope's "You Hear A Song" -- I hear this melody coming out all wrong, but you hear a song.

Louis tries to focus on the sound of water dripping from the tap, the cold tiles under his knees, the ugly green colour of the painted stalls. That’s what the pamphlet had said – grounding or something – but all he can focus on is the swirling in his stomach and his mind. His hands shake and he can’t breathe and why had he thought this was a good idea in the first place? There’s just so many _people_ , and all of them so excited or nervous or confident or hopeful that it makes him dizzy.

He presses his hands to his temples, trying to calm his breathing and his pounding heart. He has to get himself under control. He has to focus – if he can’t do it here, how can he ever hope to make it big?

He doesn’t hear the door swing open, but he feels the sudden swell of nervous excitement that makes his stomach lurch and his head throb. He swallows hard, trying to quiet his breathing, but it’s too late.

“Is someone in here?” a hesitant voice calls. “Are you okay?”

“I’m fine,” Louis manages to call back, forcing cheer that he doesn’t feel into his voice. He closes his eyes, desperately hoping that the boy will leave.

No such luck. He hears shoes brush their way across the floor, then a tap turn on. “Nice place, this,” the boy says, his voice conversational. “Fancy.”

Is he really having a conversation while using the toilet? And does he actually think this place is nice? Louis isn’t sure which question is more confusing. 

“The counters are only half-covered in water,” the boy continues, “instead of the usual complete coverage. And almost all the paper towels are in the bin. Practically a five-star restroom.”

“The colour of these stalls is the ugliest thing I’ve seen in my life,” Louis says slowly. “And it stinks.”

“It doesn’t smell any different from most toilets I’ve been in,” the boy says.

“Exactly!” Louis pulls himself to his feet. “A place as fancy as this, you’d think they’d have air freshener or something.”

“Maybe there are just too many people to keep up,” the boy suggests. “There are hundreds of us.”

“Thousands,” Louis corrects. “And just as many yesterday.”

“Exactly,” the boy says. The sound of the water stops. “That’s a lot of air freshener.”

Louis laughs. “I suppose so.” His hands have stopped shaking, he realizes. His breath is easier, and he feels in control of himself again. He brushes off his pants, then unlocks the stall door and opens it, curious to meet this friendly guy.

The boy smiles at him as he steps out of the stall, a dimple pressing into his cheek. A bowl of curly brown hair covers his head, and green eyes sparkle from beneath them. “I’m Harry, by the way,” the boy says. “Harry Styles.”

“Have we gone all formal now?” Louis asks, smiling to show he's teasing. “I’m Louis. Tomlinson. Nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” says Harry. “I’m surprised to find no one else in here. There are so many people outside.”

“No kidding,” Louis says fervently. He’s already dreading having to step back out into the crowds and their ocean of emotion.

“Have you been before?” Harry asks. “It’s my first time – I just barely made the age cutoff, actually.”

“I have, yeah,” Louis says, nodding. “A couple of years ago. It was – different.”

“How so?” Harry asks, frowning.

Louis shakes his head. “It’s not that it’s changed,” he says. “It’s just that _I_ have. The last time I was here it was before-” He cuts himself off abruptly, shocked at his carelessness.

Harry gives him a half smile. “Before you started having anxiety attacks?” he asks.

Now Louis is even more shocked. He gapes at Harry. “How did you-”

“A friend of mine gets them sometimes,” Harry says, shrugging. “I learned to recognize the signs. I hope I helped, a little?”

Louis nods slowly. “You did,” he says. “Sorry, I’m just not – most people don’t really know about – you know.”

Harry nods too. “I know,” he says. “How long have you had them?” He winces. “If you don’t mind my asking. I don’t mean to pry, I just-”

“It’s fine,” Louis says, cutting him off with a smile. “I’ve had them off and on since I was pretty young – maybe twelve? But they’ve been a bit more… intense lately.”

“I’m sorry,” Harry says, and there’s no pity in it, which Louis also hates – but Harry’s voice carries only genuine sympathy. “To tell you the truth, I was talking to you at least as much to calm myself down as for you. I’ve never done anything like this before. So many people watching.”

“Stage fright?” Louis asks, remembering the nervousness he’d sensed when Harry had entered. Now it was much fainter, though still present, but mostly overwhelmed by a sense of happiness.

Harry shrugs. “Only a little,” he says. “But it’s easier if I can keep my mind off it.”

“I’m sure you’ll do great,” Louis says, meaning it. “You’ve got that… I don’t know what to call it. But if this is anything to go by, you’re great at connecting to people, and drawing them in. That’s important.”

Harry frowns. “You think?” he asks, seeming genuinely uncertain.

“‘Course,” Louis says. “That’s what the X-Factor is, innit? It’s if you can sing, but it’s also if you have that extra something, that charisma and charm. That’s what actually makes the difference in the long run. And you’ve got it.”

He wonders momentarily if he might be overplaying things slightly, but the smile on Harry’s face says that it's working.

“Here,” Louis says, rummaging in his pockets. He finds a sharpie and a receipt for a Pepsi and holds them out to Harry. “Sign this. That way when you become super famous, I can tell people I got the first autograph.”

Harry laughs. “And sell it for lots of money, no doubt,” he teases, but he takes the proffered writing supplies from Louis’ hand.

Louis watches over his shoulder as Harry scrawls a short message across the receipt before signing it with a flourish. “To my number two fan?” he reads aloud. “Why number two? Because we’re in a bathroom?”

Harry laughs. “My mum is my number one fan, I’m afraid,” he explains. “But I like your explanation better.”

Louis takes the receipt back, folding it carefully before sliding it into his pocket. “Take a picture with me?” he asks. He feels like he’s pushing his luck, but Harry just seems to be flattered, and a bit amused.

“All right,” he says, and Louis pulls out his phone. He can’t match the brightness of Harry’s smile, but he tries, and really he’s doing this for Harry more than himself.

They part ways after that, both of them fading into the multitudinous crowds. Louis wonders if he’ll ever see him again.

~*~

Louis hadn’t always been an empath. But he’d always known that someday, he’d be – something. His mother’s work as a midwife had been aided by her ability to understand infants. Her mother, his grandmother could tell you every ingredient in a dish simply by tasting it. Jay called it a Talent, and everyone on her side of the family had one. When his sisters came of age, they too would have Talents.

Louis had spent years dreaming of what his Talent might be. When he was five, he wanted to talk to animals. When he was eight, he wanted to fly. When he was ten, he wanted to throw fire or lightning. He was sure that whatever it was, it would be awesome.

When he’d woken up on his eighteenth birthday to what felt like vibration from the direction of his bedroom door, he hadn’t understood at first. But when he sat up to see Fizzy standing in the doorway, an excited grin on her face, he’d started to suspect.

It had been -- disconcerting, at first. He got sensations, rather than the feelings themselves, and it wasn't always easy to translate. Jay referred to it as emotional synesthesia, but Louis thought that was too complex a name. He preferred to call it what it was. He was an empath.

Learning he could also influence emotions had been an accident. Daisy had woken him up after a nightmare one night -- he'd never been quite sure why she preferred him to Jay, but he was secretly proud. But nevertheless, at four in the morning, after staying up far too late playing video games and with football practice early the next morning, he just wanted to get her calmed down and go back to sleep.

He was groggy, barely coherent enough to make soothing comments as she told him about the dream, the occasional tear still leaking from her damp eyes. He tried to seem steady and reassuring, tried to project calm as he wiped her tears and patted her back -- and then, suddenly, there was a trickling sensation in his fingers and her fear fell away.

He was never sure if she realized what had happened -- she fell asleep again almost instantly, but he lay awake for some time, thinking about what he'd just done. It frightened him, a little -- it felt like mind control. His mother agreed -- it should be used sparingly, she cautioned, and only to help others. He practiced with her, and with his sisters, honing his abilities as much as possible, but it was difficult. For one thing, they intimidated him slightly, and sometimes even overwhelmed him. For another, no one knew just how they worked-- least of all him. 

This was always the problem with Talents – their singularity made them difficult to train, or to understand. Sometimes that wasn’t really an issue – his cousin’s ability to always find exactly where she left off in a book or movie didn’t require any real training. His great-aunt’s Talent with wind, on the other hand, had taken a great deal of work to manage, and still occasionally got away from her when she was upset.

“The more powerful the Talent, the harder it is to manage,” his mother told him once, after a particularly difficult day at school. “And the more important it is to control.”

Louis believes her. And so he works. He practices. He trains. He experiments. And he does get better at it. He’s just never sure it’s good enough.

~*~

The second Harry spots him, he rushes over, pulling Louis into a tight hug that catches him off guard. He tenses for a moment, before smiling and squeezing Harry back. Over the past weeks, he’s found himself staring at the photo of the two of them more times than he cares to admit, wondering if he’d gotten through to Bootcamp. Louis was still astonished that they’d let him through, so Harry had seemed like a sure thing, but there was never any certainty in this game.

“I told you that you’d make it,” he says as Harry pulls away, the widest grin Louis had ever seen on a human being splitting his face. His happiness fizzes against Louis’ mind – it tickles, and he can’t help grinning back.

“You made it too!” Harry says. “I’m so glad – this is just so amazing. I’m so happy.”

“I can tell,” Louis says, laughing. He momentarily second-guesses himself, wondering if he’s revealed his ability, then realizes that’s absurd. Astronauts could probably tell Harry is happy just now.

“That obvious?” Harry says, laughing. “Come on, I’ve met a couple of other people – they’re all really nice.” He takes Louis’ hand, tugging him over to a small group in the corner. There’s a round of introductions, but it’s more names than he can hold at once and they all fly over his head. He informs them that they’ll probably have to tell him their names again, but he doesn’t mind if they forget his name too. They all laugh, and Louis feels warm and safe and welcome.

It's so different than he’d expected, if he’s being honest. There are hundreds of them, dozens in each category, and only eight spots to Judges’ Houses. He’d expected more competitiveness, maybe even hostility. But instead, everyone seems ecstatic to find a group of people who love music as much as they do. There are singalongs in the stairwells or outside during breaks, returners offer tips and advice, and when someone is having trouble – with a song, with a dance, whatever – there are always at least half a dozen people offering to help out.

He rehearses every spare moment that he can find, singing until his voice cracks, going over lyrics as he eats, replaying dance steps as he brushes his teeth. He’s not the only one – there are always people huddled in corners or standing off to the side, working. On the second day, he meets a boy named John, who says that he doesn’t think he has a strong enough voice to make it.

“But I really want to,” John says. “I’m willing to work, I just – I don’t know if I’ll get the chance.”

Louis knows exactly what he means. They become practice partners, coaching each other as best they can – giving encouragement and criticism and suggestions. They wring everything they can from every last spare scrap of time they can find.

He hopes it will be enough.

~*~

It isn’t enough.

When his name isn’t called, it hurts. Of course it does. He wanted this – wants this – wants it so badly he can feel it like a physical ache.

But it doesn’t surprise him. He knew that there were eight boys who could sing better than him, eight boys who could dance better, eight boys who could be the star that the X Factor sought to find better than he could. He knew it, and perhaps that hurts more than the rejection.

He can feel the sadness coming off of the boys around him, waves of it that make him feel like he’s drowning, but he pushes them aside. He steps up to a boy walking beside him and wraps his arm around him – he can’t remember his name right now, Andrew or Aaron or something, but the boy’s eyes are damp and red.

“We gave it our all, yeah?” he says.

The boy nods, wiping at his nose. “It wasn’t good enough, though,” he says.

“Next time,” Louis tells him. “You going to try again?”

“Is there any point?”

“Course there is!” Louis says. He reaches out carefully with his power, trying to plant seeds of hope and optimism. “I auditioned two years ago, didn’t make the cut. This year I made it here. And I don’t know about you, but I learned a lot here – I mean, it’s called boot camp for a reason.”

Influencing emotions has always been trickier – sensing them is easy, though he can’t turn it off, but changing them is hard. He concentrates harder, and feels the bubbly sensation of hope slip from his mind to Adam’s ( _that’s_ his name).

The boy smiles. “You’re right,” he says. “I’ve got time. I’ll keep trying.”

“That’s right,” Louis says. “Plenty of people don’t make it until they’re in their twenties, or older. The first winner of X Factor was 36.”

“I remember,” Adam says. “I’ve seen every season.” He smiles at Louis. “Thanks,” he says. “I needed that.”

Louis helps three or four other distraught boys – helping is better than sulking – when someone enters the room and calls for their attention.

“Will the following participants please come with me,” says the clipboard-wielding stranger. Louis isn’t sure what it means, but he almost falls over when he hears his name read. Hope swells in his chest, but it twists with dread. He wants to believe that this is a good thing, that it’s another chance, but if it isn’t… being told he wasn’t good enough hurt the first time. If it happens again, he’s afraid it will crush him.

As he walks down the hall behind the official, he feels a gentle bump against his side. He looks over to see Harry, a tight smile on his face as he rubs his hands together. His name had been called too, though Louis had been almost too startled by his own to notice.

“What do you think it means?” Harry asks quietly.

Louis just shakes his head. “I don’t know,” he says.

Louis feels slightly dizzy with all the emotions passing through him as he walks onto the stage. Fear, sadness, hope, anger, desperation, confusion… it’s a bit overwhelming. The three judges are sitting at their table, and he tries to read them, to get some sense of what’s going on, but there’s too much going on. He gets a slight buzz that might be curiosity or might be hunger, and then even that is drowned out by the tightness of the desperation coming off the boy standing beside Louis. His name is Liam, he remembers, and he made it to Judges’ Houses before, so he’s clearly good. To come back after that kind of heartbreak, he must really want it.

The dark-haired boy on Louis’ other side gives off the heavy weight of disappointment, though it’s not as strong as some of the rejected hopefuls. The blond Irish one seems to be feeling both intense sadness and intense happiness – not in turns, as Louis is used to, but simultaneously. He has to keep checking that they’re coming from the same person, and it makes his head throb.

And Harry… there’s a hint of sadness, a thread of hope, but rising above it all is solid determination, firm and warm. It makes Louis’ breath catch. He’s hurting – they all are – but it isn’t breaking him. Whatever happens, good or bad, he’s ready to give everything he has. Louis decides to draw on that, settling it into his chest. Whatever happens, he too will be ready for it.

At last, Nicole speaks, and Louis’ attention is immediately on her. She thanks them for coming back, tells them she knows this is hard. Louis wishes she would just get to the point – salvage his dreams or destroy them even further, he almost doesn’t care (though he still does) but he just doesn’t want to wait any longer. The not knowing is agony.

“We’ve thought of each of you as individuals,” she says at last, “and we just feel that you’re too talented to let go of.”

Louis feels his heart beating faster, though it was already pounding. He can feel the hope, almost painful, swelling around him; he feels the confusion and the fear and the desperate desire for this to not be over yet. He feels it too, but he doesn’t know how they can send this many more people through. They’d still have to cut just as many later.

“We think it would be a great idea,” she continues, “to have two separate groups.”

Oh.

_Oh._

He’s still turning the idea over in his head, examining it, trying it on, when Simon picks up his own microphone.

“We’ve decided to put you both through to Judges’ Houses.”

The words ring in his ears. He almost has to repeat them to himself, checking that he heard them correctly. Through to Judges’ Houses. Judges’ Houses. He’s going to Judges’ Houses.

_He’s going to Judges’ Houses._

He feels like his knees are going to buckle under him; the happiness that hits him from every direction barely registers against his own. He’s going to Judges’ Houses, he’s going to _Judges’ Houses!_

Around him, he can see the other boys engaged in their own celebrations, the girls across the stage doing likewise. Niall is bouncing up and down, Liam’s smile looks like it’s going to break his face in two as he laughs giddily. And then Louis meets Harry’s eyes, feels the swell of his exhilaration as he moves toward him and pulls him into a tight hug. Louis hugs him back just as tightly, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes as he smiles.

“We did it,” he murmurs. “We’re going to _Judges’ Houses,_ Harry!”

“We did it,” Harry agrees, and then he’s lifting Louis up and swinging him around. Louis squawks, wrapping his legs around Harry, and Harry laughs. It’s a laugh that speaks of infinite possibilities, of eagerness and excitement and relief and joy and can’t-wait-to-find-out-what-comes-next.

The other boys close in around them, more arms wrapping around them and Louis reaches out blindly to touch them, hold them, because they’re his people now and he’s never been happier.

There are more words – instructions, warnings – but Louis barely hears them. He walks off the stage in a daze, only becoming aware of how big he’s smiling when he realizes his cheeks are sore.

“Can you believe it?” one of the girls says as they walk out. “I thought – we were done. Finished. And then-”

“It’s like we’ve been raised from the dead,” Louis agrees. “I don’t want to waste it.”

“I’ll do whatever it takes,” says another girl, walking up beside them. Harry stands next to her, smiling just as broadly. Louis feels a momentary flicker of resentment before pushing it aside.

“Me too,” he says. “I don’t care how hard we have to work. It’s worth it.”

“Agreed,” Harry says, and Louis smiles. Harry smiles back. “And best of all, we’ll get to do it together.”

The feeling coming off of him is soft and warm and it settles in Louis’ bones. It feels like a warm blanket, or a mug of hot chocolate. Louis shivers, despite the warmth.

“Together,” he repeats. He likes the sound of that.

~*~

Louis stands in the train station, a small suitcase sitting at his feet, watching the trains pass by and waiting for the others to arrive. Harry’s mother has promised to pick them up. Louis’ train was the first, with Liam’s and Zayn’s not due for another half hour, and Harry had offered to wait with him but Louis insisted it wasn’t necessary. He almost wishes he hadn’t, though – he’d be grateful for the company just now. And the distraction.

Louis is half-excited, half-nervous. He’s excited to get to know his new bandmates – properly – they’ve texted and emailed a bit, obviously, but it’s not the same. He’s excited to see how they’ll work together. He’s excited to see Harry again. But he’s nervous about being away from home for so long. He’s nervous about how they’ll get on – if they’ll argue, or clash, or if someone will be a dick. He’s nervous about having to hide his ability.

He doesn’t know what to expect, basically. And he wants so much, but he’s afraid he’ll get nothing.

His mother had offered to drive him instead of taking the train, but he’d turned her down. He wanted to do this himself – it felt important, somehow. Like the beginning of something monumental, something life-changing.

Or maybe he just wants it to be.

He feels the approach of a familiar mind before he seems him. The determination mixed with a touch of uncertainty, painted over with optimism – Liam is a solid presence, and Louis can already tell that he’ll be integral to their group – to their success, he dares to hope. He’s not sure where his own place will be in that. If he has one.

He shakes away the thought and raises a hand to wave to Liam. Liam smiles, though the enormous bags he holds in each hand mean he doesn’t wave back.

“You look like you packed the kitchen sink,” Louis says, nodding at the twin duffels. “You know we’re only here a week, right?”

Liam glances at his bags, frowning slightly. “I like to be prepared,” he says.

“And I’m sure you are,” Louis said. “For anything from a mosquito bite to a zombie apocalypse. You a Boy Scout or something?”

“Yeah,” Liam says. “You have a problem with that?”

Louis suddenly realizes that tension and defensiveness is rolling off Liam like storm clouds. He quickly shakes his head. “No problems,” he said. “Just curious. With four siblings, I’ve had to learn to pack light. Otherwise it wouldn’t fit in the car.”

Some of the tension goes out of Liam’s posture, though he still feels guarded. “Oh,” he says. “Sorry, I – sorry.”

They’re both jumpy, trying to feel their way through the dark in a world they don’t quite know the shape of yet. Louis just nods. “How was your trip?” he asks.

“Good.” A pause. “Yours?”

“Good. Bit boring.”

“Oh.”

They lapse into silence again. Louis wants to say something, anything, just to have something to do, but he doesn’t want to push Liam too far. Another train pulls into the station and departs, and when Louis spots Zayn walking towards them, relief washes over him – his own strong enough that he almost doesn’t notice the same feeling coming from Liam beside him.

“Hey guys,” Zayn says as he approaches. He’s nervous too, though it seems – compressed, somehow. Like he’s pushing it to the back of his mind. “Is our ride here yet?”

“No,” Louis says. “But I’m sure he will be soon, now that we’re all here.” Niall was flying in separately, and would meet them at Harry’s.

“How was your trip?” Liam asks, and Louis bites down on a laugh.

“Good,” Zayn says. “I like train trips. Very relaxing.” There are black smudges on his fingers, and a light streak across his cheek.

They talk like that for a few minutes, the conversation slightly stilted, before a slightly battered station wagon pulls into the parking lot. A familiar face sticks out of the passengers’ side, waving at them and beaming. “We’re here!” he calls. “It’s so good to see you all again!”

It takes a bit of manoeuvring, but they fit all the bags into the boot and then Liam, Zayn, and Louis squeeze into the backseat. It’s crowded, and Louis finds himself pressed up against Zayn.

“Sorry it’s a bit cramped,” Harry’s mother says, her voice warm and friendly. Louis likes her already. “It’s not a long drive, at least.”

“Don’t worry about us, Ms. Cox,” Liam says. “We’re fine.”

They go around a tight turn, and Louis finds himself squished against the door. Zayn prises himself off quickly, apologizing. Louis smiles and tells him it’s fine.

Half an hour later, Niall has arrived, as has the pizza delivery, and the five of them are sitting on the floor of the bungalow’s living room. Three large pizza boxes are open in front of them, and they smell too good for Louis to even consider starting discourse over the propriety of pineapple on pizza. Anne had helped them unload, carried in the pizzas when they arrived, then left them with a cheery “Have fun, boys!”

So far “having fun” seemed to be sitting in silence, the only noise coming from their chewing. At last, Louis can’t stand it any longer. He finishes his second slice and wipes his hands on a napkin.

“Right,” he says. “If we’re gonna do this we should probably know a bit more about each other.”

Liam sets down his pizza on a paper plate – Louis hadn’t even realized there were plates. Whoops. “What did you have in mind?” he asks.

Louis has nothing in mind. He just wants to break the tension and the uncomfortable silence. “Start with the basics, I guess,” he says. “I’m Louis William Tomlinson, 18, from Doncaster.”

Liam looks like he wants to point out that they already know that much about each other, but Niall speaks first. “Niall James Horan,” he says. “16 years old. From Mullingar, in Ireland.”

“My middle name is James too,” Liam says, startled. He glances around, and smiles sheepishly. “Liam James Payne, 16, from Wolverhampton.”

“Zayn Javaad Malik,” says Zayn. “17, Bradford.”

“And I’m Harry Edward Styles,” Harry says, clapping his hands. “I’m 16 and since you’ve all made it here safely, you’ve probably figured out that I live in Holmes Chapel.”

They all laugh, and instinctively move a little bit closer. “I have four younger sisters,” Louis offers next. “No brothers.”

“Two older sisters for me,” Liam says.

“Three sisters, one older,” Zayn says.

“Just my older sister,” Harry says.

“I guess that makes me the only one with a brother,” Niall says, with a laugh. “And we all have different numbers of sisters.”

They go over their birthdays, their pets, their favourite colours, and then Louis just starts throwing out random tidbits. “I once dared my friend to sneak into our school in the middle of the night and write rude words on the blackboard.”

Liam looks disapproving, but Niall laughs. “Did he?”

“Hell yes,” Louis says, grinning. “I had to pay him twenty quid, but it was totally worth it. They never figured out who did it either.”

“I used to work in a bakery,” Harry offers. “If any of the merchandise broke, we got to eat it, so every now and then I broke something on purpose. I’m sure my boss knew, but she never said anything.”

“I like to draw,” Zayn says suddenly. “It helps me to relax, clears my mind.” He flashes a crooked grin. “Or spray painting.”

They continue like that for a while. Liam has one kidney, Harry has four nipples, Niall was in Oliver Twist when he was young, Zayn can’t swim. After an hour or so, they’ve moved from sitting carefully in a circle to sprawling across the carpeted floor. Louis’ head is resting on Niall’s chest and his toes are tucked under Liam’s leg. It’s comfortable – not just the position, but the atmosphere. Contentment radiates off of everyone, and more trust than Louis would have thought possible to develop so quickly.

“What’s your greatest fear?” Harry asks suddenly. A thread of nervousness and discomfort twists through the contentment, the one a tight, twisting sensation and the other a prickling against Louis’ skin. By unspoken agreement, anyone who asks a question has to answer it first, so they wait as Harry scratches at his chin. “Mine is probably losing the people closest to me – my family, mainly.”

They all nod, and Zayn speaks up next. “I’m afraid of being seen as different, and people not liking me for that. Because I’m brown, or Muslim, or because my father is an immigrant.”

That’s… wow. Louis never would have thought of that. He wants to say something to Zayn, but he doesn’t know what, and Zayn is giving them a look that dares them to pity him. The heat of defiance mixes with his nervousness -- he doesn’t want pity. And it’s not the point.

“I’m afraid of letting people down,” Louis says instead. “Of disappointing my family or my friends. Like, if I’m not good enough and I mess things up for myself, that’s one thing, but if my failure hurts other people…” He leaves it there. They can all fill in the blanks. Harry shoots him a concerned look, but Louis avoids his gaze, looking instead between Niall and Liam. He doesn’t want pity either. He just wants to succeed. Or at least not fail.

“I’m afraid of never amounting to anything,” Liam says. “I’m afraid that my dreams will all fall apart, and I’ll never achieve any of them.”

Niall chews at his thumbnail for a moment before speaking. “I don’t have anything deep like that,” he says. “But I am fairly claustrophobic. Crowds, elevators, just anywhere I could be trapped in a small space.” He shudders. “Had an anxiety attack at a football game once – all the people pressing in everywhere made me feel like I couldn’t breathe.” He gives a wry smile, but Louis can feel his nervousness and uncertainty. “My friends teased me about it for weeks.”

Louis’ mouth opens in shock. He wants to say something – encouragement? Assurance? Comfort? – but the words stick in his throat. Niall says it like it's a joke, but Louis can feel the way the memory still stings. Harry speaks up instead. “We won’t tease you,” he says. “We’re a team here. We stick together, stand by each other. Right?”

Louis finds himself nodding, almost without realizing it. “Right,” he says. He sits up laying a hand on Niall’s shoulder. “We might have been thrown together originally, but we’re choosing it too. We’re not five individual artists anymore. We’re a group.”

Niall smiles, sitting up as well. He takes Louis’ hand on his right and Harry’s on his left. It feels strange, but it also feels right somehow. Appropriate. “I think we got lucky,” he says softly. “I mean, any one of you could have been a total arse. But you’re not. I’m proud to be a part of the same group as you guys.”

Zayn pushes himself up from the floor with a groan, then tugs Liam up as well when he looks hesitant. Louis takes Liam’s hand, and Zayn completes the circle. They’re silent for a moment, the moment somehow feeling monumental. It needs something, though – some kind of acknowledgement. But Louis doesn’t have the words for it.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen in the next few weeks,” Liam says at last. “I don’t know if we’re going to get kicked out at Judges’ Houses, or be sent home the first week of live shows, or make it to the final. I don’t know. But…” He pauses, the moment hanging heavy in the air. “I do know that I’m glad to have met you. I’m glad to know you. And I hope that – no matter what happens – we stick it out. We stay a group, in one way or another.”

“We’ve barely even met,” Zayn adds. “We hardly know each other, really – not in the usual way. But I feel like I know you all.” Louis nods, and sees the other boys nod too, almost in synchrony. They don’t understand it either, but they feel it too. “I’m proud to be able to call you my friends,” he continues. “And I can’t wait to continue on this journey with you.”

“Together,” Harry says quietly.

“Together,” Louis repeats. The other boys’ voices blend with his, and after a moment of startled silence they all laugh.

The momentary spell is broken. But as Louis studies them again, visually and with his empathic abilities, he suspects that the bonds that have just formed between them never can be.

~*~

He’s such an idiot. He’s going to let everyone down, going to ruin everything before it even starts. They’re going to be humiliated, kicked off, sent home in disgrace, and all because of a fucking _sea urchin_.

His foot throbs painfully, and he grits his teeth. Half of him wants to just say to hell with it, he’s fine, and go do the performance. But the other half of him knows he’s in no condition.

 _They’re probably fine without you,_ a traitorous part of his brain whispers. _They don’t need you_. _They’ll get through to Live Shows without you, and you can just go home to your pathetic, boring life._

“Shut _up,_ ” he tells it, a bit too loudly, and the woman who’s chaperoning him looks up sharply from her phone.

“What’s that?”

He looks down. “Sorry. Just talking to myself.”

He clenches and unclenches his fists, his chest tight. He doesn’t believe it, he doesn’t, it’s not true. It’s not it’s not it’s not it’s not it’s not

He’s breathing too fast. His heart is pounding.

it’s not it’s not it’s not

He can’t _think_. It’s too much, he can’t handle it, not when everything is on the line and he’s going to be the one to lose it.

itsnotitsnotitsnot

Focus. He tries to grab onto that word, tries to find something, anything to cling to, anchor himself. The woman beside him is still engrossed in her phone, and no one else around him seems to have noticed his descent into panic. He wishes Harry were with him. Harry would help. Harry would notice. Harry would know what to do, would comfort him or distract him or something or anything.

He closes his eyes, trying to – think. What would Harry do if he were here? Tell him to – “Breathe,” he gasps aloud, his voice more air than sound. He can’t, though, he can’t breathe, can’t think. If Harry were here – but he’s _not_ here, because Louis doesn’t matter and Harry doesn’t care –

He does.

That’s something he can hold onto. He can’t quite ignore the voices that whisper in his mind telling him that he’s not good enough, he can’t persuade himself that they’re wrong, but he _knows_ that Harry cares. He holds onto that thought, that certainty like an anchor. Harry cares, he tells himself. Harry likes me. Harry thinks I matter.

His breathing slows, still shallow and irregular, but it’s better. The anxiety is still a dull roar in his mind, but he has something to hold onto now as the storm whirls around him and he clings to it with every fibre of his being.

Slowly, slowly, he feels his mind settle, returning to itself. He opens his eyes slowly, flexing hands that are stiff from how tightly he was clenching them. There are tiny crescents pressed into each of his palms, and he can see the shape of the chair arms imprinted in his skin. But he’s okay.

Two hours later, when he arrives back at the house, the boys are sitting on the steps looking despondent. Their rush of relief and happiness when he steps out of the car is flattering, he has to admit. And when they all pile into a group hug, he finds himself laughing as he holds his bad foot out of the way.

“Nice to see you,” he says, laughing. “Miss me?”

The others laugh too, and Louis finds himself blinking back tears – good ones. It’s not just the rush of feelings filling his chest, it’s that they’re for _him._ And not because he manufactured them, either. They want him as a part of their group.

That feeling, the happiness and relief and confidence and something else he can’t quite name or pin down, something warm and soft and solid that makes his toes wiggle, feeling all of that and knowing it’s for him – that’s almost better than when Simon tells them they’re through to Live Shows.

Well. Almost.

~*~

Louis sits with his back pressed up against the wall of the X Factor house, his arms wrapped around his knees hugging them close to his chest. Tucked away behind the bushes, all he can see are dark green leaves, some starting to fade to brown, but he stares unseeing into them.

The sound of his name startles him out of his reverie. Panic flashes through him, and he presses himself further into his hiding space. Maybe he won't find him. Maybe he won't look here. Maybe he won't remember-

Then Harry's head pokes over the top of the bushes, and there's no more hiding.

Louis looks away anyways, but he can still feel it as Harry crawls behind the bush and leans against the wall next to him. They're both silent for a long moment. Louis doesn't know what to say, how to explain, and Harry doesn't know what's wrong. Louis can feel his confusion and his concern, the one almost dizzying, the other feather-light fingertips along his arms. It makes the guilt curl even more painfully in his stomach.

"I was surprised to not find you anxiously waiting for my return," Harry says at last. "The others all were."

His voice is light, but his words twist the guilt still further. Not only did Louis send Harry to the doctor, then he abandoned him when he came back. The others are better friends than Louis. Harry deserves better friends than Louis.

"They said I should talk to you," Harry added when Louis didn't speak. "But none of them knew where you were. They said you'd been worried, and disappeared."

"I wasn't-" Louis cuts himself off. Saying he wasn't worried sounds so uncaring. And he was worried, just not how the others would have thought. He knew exactly what was wrong with Harry. "I didn't want anyone to find me," he says in lieu of trying to explain any of that.

Harry tilts his head to one side thoughtfully. "I don't believe you," he says. Louis glances at him in confusion, and Harry's smile is soft and warm. "If you didn't want to be found, you wouldn't have hid here," he says. "This was one of the first places I looked."

Louis' heart skips erratically. "I didn't think you'd remember," he says.

Harry's expression implies that this is a very silly thing to think. "Of course I remember," he says. "It was the very first night. You snuck us out to go stargazing. No one's ever done that for me before. Of course I remember." There's a brief silence, softer this time. "I was feeling really homesick that night," Harry adds. "Hadn't been away from home much before this. Takes a bit of getting used to."

Louis had known that, of course. It had been why he'd slipped across to the younger boy's bed in the middle of the night, his heart pounding in his ears as he'd grabbed Harry's hand and whispered, "Let's go."

Harry had been confused, of course. He'd sat up slowly, trying to surreptitiously wipe the tears from his cheeks. "Go where?" he'd asked.

Louis had smiled at him, a smile that meant to be cheeky and friendly but just came out soft, and he was glad that the darkness made it hard to see well. "I dunno," he'd said. "It's an adventure."

"You wanted to be found," Harry says, pulling Louis back to the present. "You just didn't want to be found by anyone else."

He's right, Louis realizes, though it hadn't been a conscious decision. But even when the guilt and worry and fear were consuming him, even when it was all because of Harry and it was all Louis' fault, he still wanted to see him. The only question was whether Harry would want to see _him_ once he knew the truth.

The thought startled Louis.

Usually that sentence would have been an ‘if,’ an impossible hypothetical. No one outside the family got to know the truth. It was safer that way. It had been pressed into him for as long as he could remember – longer, even.

The only time people outside the family found out was when –

He cuts off the thought as Harry speaks again. “The doctor said I’m fine, anyway,” he says. “Probably just nerves.”

Louis bites back a burble of laughter, verging on hysterical. “Right,” he says. “Totally normal.”

“I guess.” Harry picks at the dirt beneath them. “I’ve never had stage fright like that before, though. Not that badly. It was weird. Like-”

“Like it wasn’t yours?”

Harry frowns. “I guess that works,” he says. He chuckles. “It’s silly, isn’t it?”

Louis says nothing. He bites his lip hard, blinking back tears. It’s his fault, all his fault, stupid, useless, incompetent, terrible friend –

“Louis!” from the urgency in Harry’s voice, it’s not the first time he’s said Louis’ name. “Lou, it’s okay – I’m okay. Everything is going to be okay.”

“But it’s my fault,” Louis whispers.

The words just slip out, and now he can’t take them back but he’s not sure he wants to.

“It’s not your fault,” Harry says immediately, because of course he does.

“It was,” Louis insists. “It felt like it wasn’t yours because it wasn’t. It was mine.”

There’s a long silence. Louis wonders what Harry is thinking, but he says nothing.

“I don’t understand,” Harry says at last.

“I was-” Louis swallows hard. “I was terrified. I was trying to keep it together, but-”

“Are you okay?” Harry asks, and Louis wants to cry. He doesn’t want Harry’s sympathy, doesn’t want his compassion or concern, not when he’s already hurt him so much and he doesn’t even know, and he doesn’t deserve this.

Louis runs his hands through his hair, trying to breathe. “When you touched my hand,” he says, “it – jumped.”

He still doesn’t understand how. That had never happened before, not by accident, and it had been only the barest brush – usually to intentionally transfer emotions, he had to touch someone for several seconds.

“I don’t think that’s how it works,” Harry says, a laugh colouring the edges of his voice.

“I didn’t think so either,” Louis says, knowing he means something completely different. “But I’m the only one, so I guess there aren’t really any rules.”

Harry pauses. “The only what?”

Louis closes his eyes. It goes against everything his mother has taught him, but he likes Harry, he _trusts_ him, and he feels like he owes him an explanation – even if Harry doesn’t know it. “The only empath,” he says.

There’s a long silence.

“Well, I mean, there could be others,” Louis says at last. His voice is higher than usual, and his foot taps against the dirt. “I don’t know of any others, but then, I don’t tell a lot of people, so-”

“Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“What?”

Louis laughs, in spite of himself. “I’m an empath,” he says. “I can feel your feelings – they’re like physical sensations to me. And if I concentrate, I can influence them.” He pauses. “Well, usually I have to concentrate. That’s what’s so confusing about today. It just kind of… happened.”

Harry nods slowly. “Louis?”

“Yeah?”

“Really?”

“You’re feeling confused, surprised, and worried,” Louis says. “But you also trust me.” He tries not to dwell on that. “The night I took you out here, I knew you were homesick. The day we were put together in a band, before we found out why they’d brought us back, you weren’t sad or afraid, you were determined.”

Harry looks astonished, but not completely convinced yet. “You could have guessed that,” he says. “Or my memories could just be moulding themselves to fit your story.”

Louis takes a deep breath and holds out his hand. Harry takes it almost automatically, then glances from it to Louis. “What now?”

Louis closes his eyes. He gives him the bubbly tickle of hope, the hum of excitement, the fizz of happiness. He gives him touches of sadness, anger, fear, envy, confidence, and determination. And then he gives him the warmth of perfect contentment – soft and smooth, like melted chocolate.

When he opens his eyes, Harry is smiling. As Louis releases his grip on Harry's hands, however, that smile fades to a look of astonishment.

"That was -- you -- holy crap," Harry says. "But -- how?"

Louis shrugs, half-embarrassed. "It's a Talent," he says, which Is no explanation at all but there isn't really a better one. "That's what my Mum calls it. We get them when we turn eighteen."

"We?"

Louis winces. He hadn't meant to let that bit slip -- it was one thing to reveal his own secrets, but everyone else's… still, it was a bit late now.

"Everyone on my Mum's side of the family has one," he says. "All sorts of things. My uncle can always wake up exactly when he wants to. My aunt can tell you if food is safe to eat at a touch."

"Useful," Harry says, his voice admiring.

Louis shrugs. "Some of em," he says. "Others are pretty useless. My cousin can change her hair any way she likes -- colour, length, texture. Drove her mother crazy for a few months."

Harry laughs. “I can imagine,” he says. He shakes his head. “That’s – it’s amazing, Louis. That you can do that…”

Louis shrugs, looking away. He’s never been particularly comfortable with praise. “I’m not very good at it,” he says. “Sometimes I get overwhelmed – when there are a lot of people, or when the feelings are particularly intense. It can be – difficult.”

“Is that – the first time we met?” Harry asks.

Louis glances at him, almost surprised he remembers, but of course he does. He’s _Harry_. “Yeah,” he says. “Crowds that big are hard. And everyone feeling so _much_ , and all at once – just hard to manage.” He grimaces. “Guess that makes me a liability when it comes to concerts. If we ever get to do concerts.”

“Don’t talk like that,” Harry says. His voice is somehow soft and stern at the same time. “You’re not a liability. And we will get to do concerts.”

“I’m the weakest singer in the band,” Louis says. It’s not self-deprecating, or melancholy, it’s just true. “Liam’s got the experience, you’ve got the voice, Zayn can do those riffs, Niall has the musical credibility since he can play guitar. What do I have?”

Harry grips Louis’ hand tightly. “You’ve got the soul,” he says. “You’ve got the _heart_. You make people care, make them want to see more, make them want us to stay in it. And you’re the glue – if it wasn’t for you, we’d probably never have gotten past sitting around on the bungalow floor eating pizza.”

Louis can’t suppress a smile at the last comment. “You’d have done fine.”

“Maybe,” Harry says. “But maybe not. And it certainly wouldn’t have been that fast, and I still don’t think we’d be as close as we are. You did that, Louis. Simon and the others might have put us together, but you made us into a band.”

Louis’ not sure he believes Harry. But he knows Harry means every word he says, and right now, he doesn’t want to argue. He just wants to sit there, hidden away from the world, and just _be_ – even if it’s only for a few minutes. And as he looks at Harry, he knows that he wants the exact same thing.

~*~

"So I've been thinking," Harry says, making Louis look up from his phone.

He sets it aside, giving Harry his full attention. It's been two days since he told Harry about his abilities, and Harry has been thoughtful ever since. Now that they're through to another week (Louis still can't believe this is happening), they've had time to breathe. He’d expected this, honestly.

"What is it?" Louis asks. Harry glances around, as if someone might hear, but they're alone in their room. The other boys are downstairs having lunch with the other contestants, but Louis wanted a moment of quiet. "There's no one nearby," he says. "I'd know."

Harry looks surprised, then grins. "I suppose you would," he says. "I was just thinking... you know what everyone you meet is feeling? All the time?"

Louis shifts uncomfortably. "Well, whenever they're in range," he says. "And it's harder if there are more people or more feelings, but in general -- yeah." He shrugs. "I know it’s kind of invasive, but I can't turn it off. I would if I could, but-"

"I'm not - that's not what I meant," Harry said. "I just -- I guess that means you know..."

He pauses, as if expecting Louis to complete the thought. "Know what?" Louis asks. "I guess I probably don't."

Harry grins sheepishly. Louis can't read much more than that from him -- he's nervous, but he still has that determination that takes Louis' breath away.

"I like you."

Louis blinks. "Yes," he says. "Were friends. I like you too. Living in this close proximity, it's a good thing. Though Niall still gets annoyed at my messiness."

Harry shakes his head, still grinning. He's amused, though Louis isn't sure why. "No," he says. "I mean -- I like you, Louis. A lot."

Louis is about to say he still doesn’t understand, but then suddenly he does. It hits him like a slap across the face and he almost flinches. "Oh," he says, and then, "Oh no."

Because it all makes sense. A terrible, horrible, perfect sense. The way he always gravitates towards Harry. The way he thought of Harry when he was having an attack. The way he feels every time Harry is nice to him. Oh no. Oh no, no, no.

He's in love with Harry.

And he's accidentally pushed those feelings onto Harry.

"I'm so sorry," he whispers. "I don't know how I did it, it's not -- that's never happened before, and I didn't-"

"Slow down!" Harry says, frowning. “What are you talking about?”

Louis’ chest aches with guilt. “I’ll fix it,” he says. “I don’t know how – but I’ll fix it, I swear.”

Harry reaches for his hand, but Louis pulls it away. He tries not to see the crestfallen look on Harry’s face.

“Don’t touch me,” he says softly. “Please – until I can control it – I don’t want to make things worse.”

“Make things worse?” Harry says. “What are you talking about?”

Louis stands up, unable to look Harry in the eye. “You’re not in love with me,” he says miserably. “I’m in love with you.”

~*~

The next few days are rough. Louis tries not to touch Harry, hoping that in time, the effects of his accidental influence might wear off. He wishes he could go back in time, or at least erase his memory – now that he realizes how he feels, it weighs on him. All he wants to do is to touch Harry, to hold his hand or run his fingers through his hair. He holds himself back with gritted teeth and tries to focus on rehearsals.

Except there’s no escape in rehearsals. The song they’re working on feels specifically chosen to describe his situation – to prick at his conscience and tug at his resolve. And every time they sing it, Harry’s feelings threaten to sweep him away – desire, trust, warmth, pain. Once, Louis accidentally catches Harry’s eye while they’re singing, and his voice immediately cracks around the sudden lump in his throat. They grind to a cacophonous halt, and Louis has to go get a drink (and spend a minute crying in the hallway) before he can speak again.

At the end of the rehearsal, Savan pulls him aside as the other boys file out of the room.

“Is everything okay?” he asks. “You seemed off today. You’re usually so much more… everything.”

Louis almost laughs. “What tipped you off?” he says, his voice more bitter than he intends. Savan pulls back, and guilt floods Louis again. He’s so tired of feeling guilty. “I’m sorry,” he says. “I shouldn’t have… it’s been a bit of a week.”

Savan looks at him for a moment, then nods. “Well, if you want to talk about it-“

“No,” Louis says quickly. Savan means well, but talking about it is impossible. There only people he could possibly talk about it with, he can’t. “It’s fine,” he says instead. “I can manage.”

“All right,” Savan says. “But Louis, whatever it is – you’re integral to the group. They all draw off you.”

Louis looks at the floor. “I’m sorry,” he says.

“That was meant as a compliment,” Savan says. He shakes his head. “Just – sort it out, yeah? For all of your sakes.”

Louis closes his eyes, his head starting to throb almost in resonance with the ache in his chest. “I’ll try,” he says.

Savan doesn’t say anything else, just turns to start gathering up the sheet music, and Louis takes that as his cue to leave. He’s so lost in himself that he almost doesn’t notice Harry waiting for him by the door. The lump in his throat swells, the ache in his chest redoubling its force. He keeps walking, aware that Harry is speaking but unable to process a single word. It hurts too much, and he doesn’t know what to do with it all – the pain, the guilt, the fear, the uncertainty – he just wishes it would _go away_.

When Harry grabs his hand, pulling him to a stop, Louis tries to jerk away, but it’s too late. He feels the emotion flow out of him, feels Harry’s energy change as he absorbs it. Harry stumbles momentarily, then looks up at Louis, who looks away so as not to see the pain in his eyes – his own pain, unleashed on the person he most wants to protect from it.

“I told you not to touch me,” he says, though it’s more sorrowful than blameful. “I don’t know how to control it.”

Harry ignores that. “This is what you’re feeling?” he asks instead. “All this – I had no idea.”

“You weren’t supposed to,” Louis says. “I didn’t want you to – it’s mine to deal with. Not your problem.”

“Yeah, but Lou-”

“I can try to take it back,” Louis says, reaching for Harry’s hand, but Harry snatches it away.

“Did it make it easier for you?” he asks. “And don’t bullshit me, Louis. Genuinely – does it make it better for you?”

Louis bites his lip. He wants to lie, but he can’t bring himself to, not when Harry is asking him not to and looking at him with those eyes, big and warm and caring. “Yes,” he says at last. “It’s like – like a release valve or something. I don’t know. But Harry, I don’t want you to suffer just because-”

“I’m fine,” Harry says. “I can handle it.”

“So can I,” Louis insists. “I can bear it on my own.”

Harry steps closer to him. “But you don’t have to, Louis,” he says. “That’s the thing. You don’t have to.”

Louis turns away. He has to, to keep from throwing himself into Harry’s arms. He wants to crumble, but he forces his knees to lock and his back to stay steady. “It’s wrong,” he says. “To put that on someone else. Especially when they aren’t choosing it freely.”

“I am,” Harry says, confused. “I’m glad to, if it helps you.”

“I basically mind controlled you into it,” Louis says, his voice bitter and sorrowful. “I don’t think that counts as free choice.”

Harry frowns, then sighs. “Why is it so hard for you to believe that I might care about you of my own accord?”

Louis laughs, though nothing is funny. “Have you met me?” he asks, spreading his arms wide. “I’m a mess. I’m a goddamn train wreck. Who would love me?”

Harry stares at him. “You actually believe that?” he whispers, and Louis wants to tell him to stop teasing, but he can feel the shock, the horror, the sadness that wells in Harry. He wishes he hadn’t been quite so honest. But the one thing he doesn’t sense is pity. He’s glad of that. He doesn’t want Harry’s pity.

“It’s true,” Louis says, his voice softer. “I know you think I have some value here, but – I’m nobody. And I never will be. You – Harry, you have so much potential. You could do anything, be anything. Any of you could. I don’t want to be the one to drag everyone down.” He shook his head. “I have anxiety attacks and a superpower I can’t control. I failed my A Levels the first go. I’ll just–” He stops, swallows, repeating the words that have never left his brain. “I’ll never amount to anything.”

It’s been more than a year but he can still hear the words, ringing in his ears, can still remember every detail of the moment he heard them the first time – his Geography teacher’s eyes hard and cold, random snippets of conversation from the students in the hall (“I wasn’t _actually_ pregnant, of course, so it was fine.”), his tie properly tied for once and feeling like it was going to strangle him.

“Louis.” Harry’s voice is soft, but it’s firm. “You’re everything.”

“I’m not-”

“Everything,” Harry repeats, leaving no room in his tone for disagreement. “You’re the person who would rather lift others up than lift himself. The person whose reaction to being told he wasn’t a finalist at Bootcamp was to comfort others. The person who felt so guilty about accidentally giving me his anxiety attack that he broke all the rules to tell me why.”

He takes Louis’ hand, gripping it tightly when Louis tries to tug it away. “You’re the person who when given the opportunity to do what you most want to in the world – you wonder if you should give it up, because it might be better for those around you. You’re kind and funny and caring. You’re smart and talented – even if it’s not in the ways you think you’re supposed to be. I think you underestimate yourself, though.”

Harry’s eyes are soft and sad as he looks up at Louis, and Louis has to remind himself to breathe. Harry’s voice drops lower, so quiet Louis has to strain to hear it, but he hangs on every word. “I think you’re so used to thinking that you’re not worth it, that there’s something wrong with you, that you’ll never be good enough, and it means you’ve forgotten to see everything that you _are_.” He smiles gently at Louis. “But _I_ see it. I see it, Louis, and I love it. I think it’s beautiful. I think _you’re_ beautiful.”

Louis turns away again, trying to hide the tears that spill down his cheeks. He pulls his hand from Harry’s grip, tucking it to his chest as he tries to pull himself together. After a moment, he feels Harry’s hand on his back and he tenses, jerking away. “Please,” he says. “I want – but don’t. Just – I’m sorry.”

He hears Harry sigh again, feels his breath brush against his neck, making goosebumps pop up along his skin. “Is there any way I can persuade you?” Harry asks. “I feel like you need-” He straightens, his voice gaining certainty. “Let me take you on – well, not much of a date, given the circumstances, but. Movie. Popcorn.”

“I don’t think-”

“I won’t touch you.” Louis glances back in surprise, and Harry gives a sidelong grin. “It’ll be hard,” he says, his voice playful, “but I promise I won’t unless you want me to.”

Louis should say no. He really should. It wasn’t right, it wasn’t fair to Harry or to himself. But – he wanted to. God, did he ever want to. It wouldn’t be enough, not when he couldn’t touch – couldn’t cuddle or hold hands or just lean against each other – but being alone with Harry always seemed to calm him. And he certainly needed calming.

“All right,” he says at last. The way Harry’s face lights up gives him a pleasantly warm sensation in his chest, and the vibration of his excitement makes Louis sneeze. “This doesn’t mean anything,” he warns, “at least not necessarily. We’re not – I mean-”

“Just a movie,” Harry assures him. “Just hanging out. Just me, just you, just us. That’s all I’m asking for.”

Louis nods, uncertainty mixing together with a cautious happiness in his stomach. Harry is just so _good,_ he doesn’t understand it. Doesn’t understand how he could possibly be lucky enough to have someone like that like _him._

 _He doesn’t,_ he reminds himself. _He just thinks he does, because you like him._

But he’s starting to think that maybe, just maybe, he might be wrong.

~*~

It’s nice, he thinks. He sits next to Harry on the bed, a bowl of popcorn placed carefully between them. The other boys have been gracious enough to give them the room for the evening at Harry’s request, though Louis suspects they might be in for some ribbing later.

The laptop screen is small, but judging by the way Harry is muttering along to the dialogue, he’s seen The Notebook enough times that it’s not a problem. He’s a comfortable presence on Louis’ right, and Louis finds himself watching Harry’s face more than the movie – watching the way his eyes light up when he smiles, crinkles appearing at the corners of his eyes and a dimple popping in on his cheek.

The only thing that ruins it is that they can’t touch. Louis hates it. It’s his rule, and it’s for a good reason, but he hates it. He wants to touch Harry, wants to lose himself in the feel of his skin – soft and smooth and solid and sure and _Harry_.

He’s not sure how long it’s been when he realizes that Harry is watching him back. He ducks his head, his face flushing in spite of himself, but when he looks up again, Harry is smiling. He holds Louis’ gaze a moment longer, then turns his attention back to the movie. Louis tries to do likewise, but he keeps getting distracted by Harry’s smile and his hair and his smell and the way his happiness fizzes in Louis’ blood.

Happiness is the main emotion Louis from Harry; that and excitement. He's not willing to assume completely that it's for him rather than the film, but he hopes it’s partly for him. There's also a kind of... eagerness, and wanting, tempered by a cool patience, which Louis is grateful for. The two fluctuate against each other, one rising and then the other, as though Harry is having an internal argument with himself. That settles as the movie progresses, Harry drawn deeper into the story, almost enraptured.

When the first flash of annoyance comes, it startles Louis. It's a rough sandpaper stripe against his skin, and he glances up to see a small scowl creasing Harry's face. Nothing has happened in the film -- the characters are still happily romancing along -- so Louis doesn't understand what could have caused it. The scowl fades in a minute or two, though, and Louis decides to ignore it.

It happens again, though, maybe ten minutes later. The same sudden spike of annoyance, the saw little scowl, the same lack of any apparent cause. This one takes a little longer to fade, and then a few minutes later comes a third.

Uncertainty builds in Louis' chest. Is he doing something he shouldn't? Is he _not_ doing something he should? Is Harry bored? Does he regret that he ever asked Louis to hang out on this pseudo-date that he probably thinks was a bad idea now because Louis is a terrible date and who would ever want to date him-

Another flash. Harry glances up at Louis, and the sandpaper is immediately replaced with the softness of wool. "Sorry," he says. "I just keep wanting to hold your hand. I have to keep stopping myself. I promised."

Relief. Beautiful, blissful relief. It's not Louis -- well it is, but it isn't -- Harry wants to be here. Harry doesn't hate him. Well, he knew that, he just forgot to believe it -- or something. Anyways. Details.

"I'm sorry," he tells Harry. "I just don't think it's a good idea. Not when we have no idea how this thing works, or why. I don't want to accidentally-" He stops, unsure how to finish the sentence. He doesn't want to accidentally influence him, control him, hurt him, take advantage of him. "Anything," he says at last.

“You don't need to apologize," Harry says quietly. “I under- well, I don't completely understand, but I respect your decision. I won't push you beyond what you feel comfortable with. You're enough, Lou. Just being here, with you -- that's enough for me.”

Louis' throat is too thick with emotion and gratitude for him to say a word. He hopes Harry hears it anyway.

~*~

When they come to the scene in the abandoned house, Louis has to bite his tongue to keep from laughing. It’s just – it’s so ridiculous. It’s so silly. It’s exactly what they’re doing. Noah and Allie stand ten feet apart taking their clothes off piece by piece, and here Louis is sitting next to the most beautiful boy he’s ever met and refusing to touch him.

He really, really wants to touch him.

He tries to argue, tries to tell himself that he shouldn’t, but all he can think about is what it would feel like to twist his fingers through Harry’s hair, to feel his arm solid around his back, to hold his hand, firm and warm and steady.

He really, really, really wants to touch him.

And then comes the fight, the breakup, Noah driving off into the night, Allie running after him with tears spilling down her cheeks. Louis sees tears forming in Harry’s eyes, wet and shiny, feels the secondhand heartbreak, and even though he knows Harry is fine, it’s just a story, they both know how it ends, he still feels the urge to comfort him. To soothe him.

Before he can change his mind, he reaches across the bowl of popcorn sitting nearly empty between them, and slips his hand into Harry’s, wrapping their fingers together.

Harry looks up with a start. “Are you sure?” he asks.

Louis’ heart is beating fast, and he’s not sure how much of that is from nervousness that his Talent will slip again and how much is that he’s _holding Harry’s hand_. But he is sure that he wants to keep holding it. “I’m sure,” he says aloud. And so far, everything seems to be fine. He hasn’t felt anything, no sudden rush on his end or swell from Harry. He thinks – he hopes – that it’s fine.

They stay like that, side by side, hand in hand, the movie playing out before them. Over time, they shift closer, the popcorn bowl relegated to the floor. Harry leans against Louis’ shoulder, and Louis’ heart skips. He feels full, full to the brim with feelings he can’t name. With his free hand, he starts absently fiddling with Harry’s fingers, brushing his thumb over each one.

“That tickles,” Harry mutters absently, but he doesn’t ask him to stop, so he doesn’t.

When they come to the scene on the water, Noah and Allie in a battered rowing boat, the river blanketed with beautiful white birds, Harry sighs happily.

“I love this scene,” he says.

Louis chuckles. “You love this _movie_.”

“I didn’t notice you complaining,” Harry teases. “In fact, I think I heard you muttering the lines a few times.”

“I grew up with four sisters,” Louis says, not offended in the slightest. “I’ve seen this movie at least a dozen times. Probably more.”

“Hmm.” Harry is smiling. “Admit it, you love it too.”

Louis smiles too, mischief in his eyes. “Make me.”

Harry’s eyes widen, and then he bursts into peals of delighted laughter. He climbs to his knees, one leg on either side of Louis, his hands on Louis’ shoulders. “You love it,” he whispers, his voice soft and his eyes sparkling in a way that makes Louis’ chest swell. But he shakes his head.

“I’m not convinced,” he says.

Harry’s hands trail down Louis’ arms, then dart in to jab at his sides. Louis jerks, laughter spilling from his chest as Harry tickles him mercilessly.

“Say it,” Harry urges, laughing himself. “Say you love it.”

Louis twists sideways, falling against the mattress, but Harry is persistent. His hands move faster than Louis can reach for them, never going where he expects.

“I do,” Louis gasps at last. “I love it. Great movie.”

The tickling stops. Louis’ chest is heaving as he looks up at Harry, whose smile is bright enough to light up a city. “Hi,” Harry says.

Louis reaches up to touch Harry’s face, his fingers gentle against his cheek. Harry’s smile seems to grow still brighter, giving Louis the courage to wrap his fingers around Harry’s shoulder and tug.

Harry was not expecting this, it appears, because he collapses on top of Louis, knocking the wind out of them both. “Oops,” Louis says, when he can speak again.

Harry shrugs. “I don’t mind,” he says. “Gives me an excuse to get up close and personal.” He pauses. “This is still okay, yeah?”

Louis considers that for a moment. Maybe he shouldn’t, but he also knows that he can’t possibly stop now. And everything seems fine. “Yeah,” he says. “We’re good.”

Harry’s fingers trail along Louis’ neck. “Good,” he says. He leans closer, his face mere centimetres above Louis’, and Louis feels the tightness of nerves mixing with the flutter of anticipation. “And this?” Harry whispers. “Is this okay?”

Louis can feel Harry’s breath on his cheeks, can feel Harry’s heart hammering in his chest. He’s certain Harry can feel his heart, racing just as fast, his breath coming short and quick. He nods, not trusting himself to use words, and then Harry is smiling at him and he’s moving closer and-

Louis has a momentary flash of panic that he’ll somehow manage to stuff this up, but them Harry’s lips are on his and he has no room to think about anything else.

The kiss is soft and sweet and tender, like everything Harry does. It makes Louis feel like he’s wrapped up in an electric blanket, like putting on his favourite socks fresh out of the drier, like a summer nap with the sun on his skin and the smell of grass and wildflowers in his nose. He feels Harry’s smile against his mouth, feels his happiness, almost painful, feels everything.

He pulls away first, gasping for air, his eyelids flickering. He can’t breathe, can’t think, all he knows is that he wants this, wants more, wants it all. Wants Harry, forever and ever in whatever way he can have him.

He kisses Harry again, their lips molding together like they were made for each other, and Louis feels Harry’s happiness surge once again. His own happiness feels infinite, like he just won the lottery, except instead of money he gets Harry’s hands and his lips and honestly he’d rather have that than money any day.

His fingers trace abstract patterns along Harry’s back, pulling his shirt this way and that. He feels Harry shiver, sighing happily against Louis’ lips. His hands are buried in Louis’ hair, tugging and twisting, and Louis wants to stay here forever, feeling this _much_ and he wishes he could tell Harry how much this means to him, how happy it makes him, how grateful he is for everything, but he knows he could never find the words. There are no words, no way to properly express everything that he’s feeling without it seeming dull and ordinary by comparison. He still wishes, though, wishes Harry could have some idea-

And then – he feels it. It’s like a piece of him breaks off, slipping away, and Louis tries to grab at it, to catch it and pull it back but he doesn’t know how. His heart sinks, guilt building in his stomach, but then Harry is looking at him, wonder in those beautiful, green eyes of his. “You – you’re – for me?”

It takes Louis a minute to process what he’s asking, and then he nods. Harry’s face is breathtaking, his expression blindingly happy, and the feeling of his happiness makes Louis think he just might float away.

“Me too,” Harry whispers, and kisses Louis again.

They miss the rest of the movie, but neither of them care.

~*~

The next day is the first time they leave the bubble of the X Factor since the beginning of the month – it feels like it’s been forever, but it’s really only been a few weeks. But so much has happened, so much has changed, and none of that is more apparent than when they see the crowds that are waiting for them.

Louis feels his chest tighten at the sight of them, and Harry must feel him tense up, because he gives Louis’ hand a gentle squeeze. Either that or he just knows Louis well enough by now.

“You’re gonna be fine,” he whispers, in that voice he has that makes anything he says seem perfectly logical. “You can do this.”

“Can I?” Louis mutters. He feels slightly nauseous, almost wishes he’d stayed behind. This was probably a terrible mistake. But-

“You can,” Harry repeats. “You’re stronger than you think.”

“But if I can’t,” Louis says, his voice low enough that only Harry can hear. “If it gets too much-”

“You have me,” Harry says, and it’s sweet, but Louis isn’t sure that will be enough. He’s about to say so, but Harry keeps speaking. “I’m your release valve, right? Use it.”

Louis pulls back, his eyes wide. “You – no. No, absolutely not. I won’t-”

“It’s fine,” Harry says, glancing meaningfully at the others. Louis bites his lip. He can’t argue here, is the problem. “I can handle it.”

Louis shakes his head. “I _can’t_ ,” he says. “I can’t do that to you – it’s not fair to you.”

Harry smiles. “Why don’t you let me be the judge of that?” he says. “And you don’t have to. I’m just saying – it’s an option. An option I don’t mind at all.”

He won’t do it. He refuses to do it. It’s immoral, it’s unfair, it’s a totally inappropriate use of his powers. But then the car door opens and it’s like he’s been hit with a wall of emotion, his skin crawling from the vibrations and it’s only been a few seconds but it’s already too much. He whimpers slightly, and before he can think about what’s happening, Harry brushes their hands together.

And then it’s gone. He still itches, but the vibration fades away, flowing out through Harry’s touch; the overwhelming press of excitement drops off. He feels it spark in Harry’s chest, sees the light in his eyes, but it’s different. He can feel it building again, but slower. And Harry certainly seems none the worse for wear.

So he lets him help. Occasionally, when it gets too much and he can barely breathe, he touches his hand or his arm or his shoulder, and it helps.

“Thank you,” he whispers when they get home that night. “I couldn’t have done it without you.”

He half-expects Harry to say that of course he could have, though he’s not at all sure that’s true, but Harry doesn’t. “I’m glad I could help,” he says instead. “I’m glad you let me.”

Louis lets a cautious smile spread across his face. “Don’t get used to it,” he warns, though he suspects the weak link will be him rather than Harry.

Harry just laughs. “I can’t promise that,” he says. “I think I’m already getting used to you.”

Louis’ heart does that thing, the one where it feels all squishy and warm, and he finds himself leaning forward to press a soft kiss to Harry’s lips.

~*~

The next weeks are crazy, but in a good way. They keep moving forward, which is unbelievable. Hundreds of people wait outside to see them, to talk to them, to touch them or get a picture, which is mindblowing. And Harry keeps looking at him like he hung the stars in the sky, which makes him pinch himself on a regular basis to make sure he’s not dreaming.

If he is, he’s not sure he ever wants to wake up.

One moment in particular stands out to him. They meet so many people that it starts to blur together, which he feels guilty about, but he tries to give each one his complete attention. Because they’re the ones making this happen. They’re the ones who for some bizarre, unimaginable reason have decided that they want One Direction to succeed.

He hopes that each person he talks to, each picture he takes or autograph he signs or hand he holds – he hopes he’s able to make that person feel special. As special as they make him feel. It’s hard to tell, with so many people and everything so intense – with practice, he’s getting better at managing that, but he still always wants Harry close by (though to be fair he’d want him close by anyways).

But there’s one conversation in particular that sticks with him. That he can’t forget, that he keeps turning over in his head all day.

It's a girl -- most of them are -- perhaps fifteen or sixteen. Brown hair hangs loose around her face, her clothes are plain; there's nothing that makes her stand out at first glance. Her emotions are a bit softer, perhaps, a bit more controlled, but Louis doesn't think anything of it.

He takes her hand through the fence, as he does with each fan he talks to, sending a light touch of calm through the contact.

"Hi, love," he says, smiling. "What's your name?"

"Melissa," she says, her smile wide enough that it looks slightly painful. "This is -- I'm so glad to meet you."

Louis laughs. "People keep saying that," he says. "It still seems bizarre. I mean, we're just five normal lads. A month ago, no one knew who we were."

"And now millions do," Melissa says. "Takes a little getting used to?"

"I don't know that I'll ever be used to it," Louis says honestly. "But then, I'm not sure if really want to be." He shakes his head. "I just don't know how I got so lucky -- how any of us did."

"You deserve it," Melissa says, and her voice is so steady, so certain that Louis is caught off guard.

"I hope so," he says after a moment.

Melissa frowns. "You don't see it?" she asks. "You guys just fit together – your strengths and weaknesses complement each other. Your dynamic is closer than friends who've known each other for years." She shakes her head. “You’re all incredible, and I think you’re going to go really far.”

Louis finds himself smiling at her optimism. “Let’s not jinx it,” he says, teasingly. “I’m lucky to have such incredible bandmates to work with.”

“They’re lucky to have you,” she replies. “You bring them to life; you lift them up. And when you sing-” She shakes her head. “It’s so emotive. You so clearly feel everything you’re singing, and when you do, we feel it too.”

Louis almost loses his balance. Her words echo in his ears. _So emotive, feel everything, we feel it too, we feel it when you do._

“Thank you,” he manages at last. “You don’t know how much it means to hear that.”

Her face splits in a wide smile, his sense of her fizzing happiness swelling. “Thank _you_ ,” she says. “Getting to meet you – getting to tell you all that – it’s like a dream come true. Thank you so much.”

He has to move on then, greet someone else, take a photo or sign a piece of paper – he hardly remembers any of it, too dazed to focus, though he tries to shake it off for the sake of the fans. When he heads inside a little while later, he shuts himself in their room, collapsing on his bed to think. Niall is reading on his bunk, his earbuds in and the slightly tinny sound of Michael Bublé playing faintly. Louis stares at the ceiling in silence, wondering.

Harry finds him like that some time later. It takes Louis a moment to notice him, and then he slides over to make room. They lie in silence for a while, Harry’s head on Louis’ chest, rising and falling with his breathing. At last, Harry speaks.

“What’s on your mind?”

Louis glances down at him. “Just something one of the fans said,” he says. Harry’s eyebrows start to pinch together in concern, and Louis reaches to smooth the frown away. “Something good,” he says. “Just… it made me think.”

“Oh,” Harry says. He fiddles with the collar of Louis’ t-shirt. “What about?”

Louis lets out a breath. “My Talent,” he says. “And, like. The band.”

“You’re not still worried about being a liability, are you?” Harry says. The frown is back, worry creeping into his beautiful eyes. “Because I promise-”

“Relax,” Louis says, laughing softly. “I told you it was a good thing.”

“Oh,” Harry says. “Right. Sorry.”

“Don’t apologize,” Louis says. “It’s sweet.” He wraps a lock of Harry’s hair around his finger, tugging gently. “I guess it technically is about that, though. I was talking to a fan about how lucky I am to have you guys, and she said that you’re lucky to have me.” He can’t quite suppress a wry smile, the notion still strange. “She told me that when I sing – that she can feel the emotion of the song.”

Harry glances up at him, surprise written on his face. “You think-”

“I don’t know,” Louis says, shaking his head. “I’d never considered – I don’t know. And I mean, it might not even be related. Or it might be peripherally related – because I feel everyone else’s emotions of the song. But if I could project that somehow-”

“Sounds like you already are,” Harry says, smiling. “You have a place here, Louis. I swear it.”

Louis is quiet for a long moment. “You have to understand,” he says at last. “No matter how many times you tell me that, there are still going to be times I don’t believe you. There are going to be times when you’ll have to talk me down. And there are going to be times where you can’t fix it. I’m not an easy person to love, and I wish I could spare you that, but-”

“Then you wouldn’t be you,” Harry interrupts. “I like _you_ , Louis, not some flawless version of you. The one who gets nervous, who’s generous and selfless, who gives his all to everything he does. The one who cares so much it hurts sometimes, but he does it anyway. That’s the person I fell for. You. _All_ of you.”

Louis feels tears prick at his eyes. “You’re perfect,” he whispers. “How did I get this lucky?”

Harry laughs, a high, clear sound that makes Louis’ stomach do flips. “I’m exactly as perfect as you are,” he replies. “And we’re both lucky.”

Lying there with Harry next to him, his face warm and open and soft and beautiful, Louis can’t find a single opposing argument. Instead, he finds himself wondering where their luck will take them next.


End file.
